ADDRESS TO MY BOOK,
AN ELEGY.
Child of my love, go forth, and try thy fate:
Few are thy friends, and manifold thy foes!
Whether or long or short will be thy date,
Futurity's dark volume only knows.
Much criticism, alas! will be thy lot!
Severe thine ordeal, I am sore afraid!
Some judges will condemn, and others not:
Some call thy form substantial—others, shade.
Yes, child, by multitudes wilt thou be tried!
Wise men, and fools, thy merits will examine:
Those, through much prudence, may thy virtues hide;
These, through vile rancour, or the dread of famine.
Prov'd will it be indeed (to make thee shrink)
What metal Nature in thy mass did knead:
A melting
process will be us'd, I think—
That is to say, large quantities of lead.
By some indeed will nitre's fuming spirit
Be o'er thy form so sweet, so tender, thrown;
Perchance a master hand may try thy merit;
Perchance an imp by folly only known.
Now, now I fancy thee a timid hare,
Started for beagles, hounds, and curs, to chase!
A mongrel dog may snap thee up unfair;
For spite and hunger have but little grace.
Long are thy legs (I know), and stout for running;
And many a trick hast thou within thy brain;
But guns and greyhounds are too much for cunning,
Join'd to the rav'nous pack of Thomas Paine!
And now a lamb!—What devils now-a-days
The butch'ring shop of criticism employs!
Each beardless villain now cuts up, and flays!
A gang of wanton, brutal, 'prentice boys!
Ah me! how hard to reach the dome of Fame!
Knock'd down before she gets half way, poor muse!
For many a lout that cannot gain a name,
(Rebus and riddle-maker) now reviews!
Poor jealous eunuchs in the land of taste,
Too weak to reap a harvest of fair praise;
Malicious, lo, they lay the region waste;
Fire all they can, and triumph o'er the blaze!
Too oft, with talents blest, the cruel few
Fix on poor Merit's throat, to stop her breath:
How like the beauteous fruit
, that turns of dew
The life ambrosial, into drops of death!
Sweet babe, to Weymouth shouldst thou find thy way!
The king, with curiosity so wild,
May on a sudden send for thee, and say,
‘See, Charly, Peter's child—fine child, fine child:
‘Ring, ring for Schwellenberg—ring, Charly, ring;
Show it to Schwellenberg; show, show it, show it—
She'll say, ‘Got dem de saucy stoopid ting,
I hate more worse as hell what come from poet.’
Yet will some courtiers all at once be glad!
Leeds, Hawksb'ry, Sal'sb'ry, Brud'nell, will rejoice;
Forget how oft thy brothers made them mad,
And echo through the realm the royal voice.
And then for me his majesty may send
(Making some people grumble in their gizzards);
With Drake's new place, perchance, thy sire befriend;
First fly-catcher to good Queen Charlotte's lizards
!
